One Perfect Lie

by Lisa Scottoline

  “I have to check and get you a rate quote. You know, you can check availability and reserve online with a credit card.”

  “I saw that, but I didn’t want to reserve it online and send my nephew over to pick it up, only to find out that it’s not available.”

  The clerk hesitated. “Did you say your nephew’s going to be picking it up?”

  “Yes, he’ll be the one to come in and get it. I’m only in town for the day. I’ll pay for it once I’m sure of my plans.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventeen, a high-school junior.” Chris didn’t elaborate, because he couldn’t. Not yet anyway. He’d just gotten the email confirming that he’d been hired and he was on his way to the school-district office, where he’d fill out the remaining forms. He’d start classes tomorrow and he’d have to pick a boy right away.

  “Oh, that’s a problem. He has to be eighteen to rent one of our box trucks.”

  Chris blinked. “But I’d be renting it, not him.”

  “Sorry, but just the same. He can’t pick it up for you or drive if he’s under eighteen.”

  “Really?” Chris asked, feigning surprise. Ryder had a minimum age of eighteen and at Penske, it was twenty-one. “But he has a driver’s license, and I’ll send him in with cash.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you out. Company rules. It’s on the website in the FAQs.”

  “Rick, can you bend the rules, just this once? I can’t come all the way back to Central Valley just to pick up the truck.”

  “Nope, sorry.” The clerk motioned to the trailers at the end of the row. “Can you use a trailer? He’d only have to be sixteen to rent a trailer.”

  “No, I really need the truck.”

  “Then I can’t help you, sorry. Did you check Zeke’s?”

  “What’s that?” Chris’s ears pricked up.

  “Oh, you’re not from here, that’s right. Everybody knows Zeke.” The clerk smiled. “He’s a Central Valley old-timer. He fixes farm trucks. Actually, he can fix anything. He always has a truck sitting around to sell or rent, and all the locals use him when we don’t have availability. I doubt he’d be picky about renting it to a seventeen-year-old. Most of those farm kids been driving since they were thirteen.”

  “Good to know,” Chris said, meaning it. “Where’s his shop?”

  “Intersection of Brookfield and Glencross, just out of town.” The clerk smiled wryly. “It doesn’t have a sign but you can’t miss it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Chris was driving down Brookfield Road, understanding what the clerk had meant by not being able to miss Zeke’s. The intersection of Brookfield and Glencross was in the middle of a soybean field, and on one corner was an ancient cinder-block garage surrounded by old trucks, rusted tractors, and used farm equipment next to precarious stacks of old tires, bicycles, and random kitchen appliances.

  Chris turned into the grimy asphalt lot and parked in front of the garage. He got out of the car, keeping his ball cap on though there were no security cameras. No one else was around, and the only sound was tuneless singing coming from one of the open bays.

  “Zeke?” Chris called out, entering the garage, where a grizzled octogenarian in greasy overalls was working on an old Ford pickup on the lift. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and his glasses had been repaired with a Band-Aid over the bridge.

  “Yo.”

  Chris smiled pleasantly. “Hi, my name’s Pat Nickerson. I hear that you might have a truck to let. My nephew’s going to pick it up for me because I’m only in town for today. But he’s seventeen. Can you work with that?”

  “He a good boy?” Zeke’s eyes narrowed.

  “Yes.”

  “Then no!” Zeke burst into laughter, which turned into hacking, though he didn’t remove the cigarette from his mouth.

  Chris smiled. The guy was perfect.

  “What kind of truck you need?” Zeke returned to working under the vehicle.

  “A box truck, a ten-footer.”

  “I got two box trucks, a twelve-footer and a big mama.”

  “The twelve-footer will do. Does it run okay?”

  “Oh, you need it to run?” Zeke asked, deadpan, then started laughing and hacking again.

  Chris smiled, playing along, though he was deadly serious. An unreliable truck would not be the ticket. “So it runs reliably.”

  “Yes. I’d let you take it for a spin but it’s not here. My cousin’s usin’ it.”

  “When will it be back? I need my nephew to pick it up next week, on Monday morning.”

  “No problem. I’ve got that one and another coming back. This time of year, it’s slow, and nobody’s been in. I’ve always got somethin’. You’re moving Monday, we’ll have it here Sunday night.”

  “Okay, let me double-check with my nephew to make sure, and I’ll get back to you.” Chris didn’t explain that the truck wasn’t for a move. It was for transporting an ANFO bomb that would kill as many people as possible and cause mass destruction. An ANFO bomb was easy to make and safe to assemble. Combine 96 percent ammonium nitrate fertilizer and 6 percent Number 2 fuel oil, diesel fuel, or kerosene in a drum, making a slurry the consistency of wet flour. To make it even more explosive, add nitromethane, a fuel used in motorsports or hobby rockets, readily available. Wire a blasting cap to TNT or a Tovex sausage, fire it with a simple electrical circuit, and drop it in the drum.

  “Okay, fella. Call or stop back. My number’s in the book. How long you need the truck for?”

  “Just the day or two.”

  “Fine. Seventy-five bucks a day, cash. You gas it up. I’ll have it here Monday morning for your nephew. Nine o’clock.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  “Because I said so.” Zeke cackled, the cigarette burning close to his lips. “Okay, fella. See ya later.”

  “See you,” Chris said, turning to go. He had so much to do. The bombing was happening on Tuesday. Only six days away.

  Kaboom.

  Chapter Three

  “I’m Mr. Brennan, welcome to AP Government,” Chris said on a continuous loop, standing at the threshold to his classroom and greeting the students. They didn’t walk so much as shuffle, the girls in their Uggs and the boys in plastic slides.

  “You’re Mr. Brennan? Oh, whoa!” one female student said, flushing in a way that Chris found charming. But he wasn’t tempted. The girls weren’t his target. The boys were.

  Chris kept smiling, greeting the students while he assessed the boys, uniformly sloppy in T-shirts, sweatpants, or school logowear. Some of them met his eye with confidence, so he eliminated them from consideration. Instead he noted the boys who had weak grips, averted their eyes, or had bad acne. Nobody with acne felt good about themselves. At seventeen years old, Chris had hated his skin, his face, and himself.

  “I’m Mr. Brennan, hello, how’re you doing?” Chris kept saying, as they kept coming. He had combed his class rosters and identified the boys he had both in class and on the baseball team. In this class, there were three—Evan Kostis, Jordan Larkin, and Michael “Raz” Sematov. Chris kept his eyes peeled for Evan, Jordan, or Raz, but they hadn’t come yet.

  “Whoa!” “Awesome!” “Look!” the students said as they reached their desks, delighted to discover that a surprise snack awaited them. Chris had placed either a soft pretzel, a packet of chocolate cupcakes, or an apple at each seat.

  “Mr. Brennan, why the snacks?” one of the boys called out, holding up his cupcakes.

  “Why not?” Chris called back, remembering the boy’s name from the roster. The kid was Andrew Samins. “I figured you guys could use a treat.”

  “Free?” Samins asked, incredulous. “Wow, thanks!”

  “You’re welcome.” Chris smiled, making a mental note.

  “Awesome, thanks!” “Wow!” “Cool!” “Thank you!” the students chorused, the hubbub intensifying as they compared treats, leading inevitably to noisy negotiation over the snacks, which had been his intent. They were guinea pigs in an
experiment, they just didn’t know it. Their negotiations would give him clues about the boys’ personalities: who had power and who didn’t, who could be manipulated and who couldn’t. Of course, the fights were over the chocolate cupcakes and the soft pretzels. Nobody wanted the apples except for the girls, either that or they settled for them. Chris wanted to see what happened with Evan, Jordan, and Raz.

  “But Mr. Brennan,” one girl said above the chatter, “we’re not supposed to eat in class. It makes crumbs, and mice come. I saw one in the music room before break.”

  Another girl chimed in, “Also this is a peanut-free classroom, Mr. Brennan. I’m not allergic but some people could be.”

  “Ladies, the snacks are peanut-free. Dig in, and I’ll take the heat.” Chris watched the students take their seats. He’d arranged the desks the conventional way, five rows of six desks. He hadn’t assigned them specific seating because he wanted to observe the friendships that had already formed.

  Chris returned his attention to the hallway and spotted Evan, Jordan, and Raz walking toward him, looking at something on Evan’s smartphone. Chris had researched them on social media and knew that Evan Kostis was the most popular, a rich kid with a doctor father, so Evan wasn’t his first choice for a pawn. Evan was the handsome one, with brown eyes, a thin nose, and thick black hair that he kept flipping back. He had a winning smile, undoubtedly thanks to orthodonture, and he dressed cool in a red Patagonia vest, Musketeers hoodie, slim jeans, and Timberland boots that looked new.

  Next to Evan was Mike Sematov, whose unruly black hair curled to his shoulders. Sematov had bushy eyebrows and round dark eyes, and he was hyper, trying to grab Kostis’s phone. Sematov’s nickname was Raz, evidently from Rasputin, his Twitter handle was @cRAZy, and his Facebook feed was usually videos of people vomiting or popping zits and abscesses. Sematov was an excellent possibility because his father had passed away in August from pancreatic cancer. It wasn’t easy to find a kid with a dead father, and Chris thought Raz might be a winner, unless the boy was too cRAZy.

  Chris shifted his attention to another possibility, Jordan Larkin. Jordan was six-foot-one, but his stooped manner made him look awkward, all gangly legs and arms. The boy had a longish face with fine-boned features, but his hazel eyes were set close together and his hair, a nondescript brown, was too short. He dressed inexpensively, in a blue Musketeers Baseball sweatshirt, generic gray sweatpants, and Adidas’s knockoff slides. Best of all, Jordan was the son of a single mother, which was almost as good as a dead father.

  Chris smiled and extended a hand as the three boys reached the classroom. “I’m Mr. Brennan, gentlemen. Welcome to AP Government. I’ll be coaching you guys, too.”

  Evan was the first to shake Chris’s hand, looking him directly in the eye. “Evan Kostis. Ahoy! Welcome on board!”

  “Good to meet you, Evan.” Chris was about to turn to Jordan just as Sematov thrust his hand forward.

  “Mr. Brennan, yo, I’m Mike Sematov but call me Raz. You don’t look like Ms. Merriman.” Raz smiled goofily.

  “Can’t fool you!” Chris kept his smile on, making a mental note of the fact that Sematov had offered his nickname and a handshake. The gestures suggested that Raz wanted a connection with him, so maybe there was something Chris could build on. “Raz, go in and pick a desk. Also I put out snacks for everybody.”

  “Awesome!” Raz’s dark eyes lit up, and he ducked inside the classroom.

  “Sweet!” Evan bolted after him, leaving Jordan alone with Chris, who extended a hand to the boy.

  “You must be Jordan Larkin. Great to meet you.”

  “Thanks.” Jordan shook Chris’s hand, breaking eye contact to peek inside the classroom. “Are you for real about snacks? You know, they freak if we eat in the classroom.”

  “What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em,” Chris said, then added, improvising, “We’re celebrating. It’s my birthday.”

  Jordan smiled, surprised. “Oh, jeez. Happy birthday.”

  “Don’t say anything, I don’t want to make a fuss.”

  “Sure.” Jordan looked away, and Chris felt he had scored a point, co-opting the boy. Meanwhile Evan and Raz were racing each other to the snacks, and the only empty desks left were the first seats in each row. The remaining snacks were a soft pretzel and two apples.

  “I call the pretzel!” Raz bolted toward the desk with the soft pretzel.

  “I saw it first!” Evan chased after him, hip-checking Raz to grab the pretzel.

  “Dude, yo!” Raz said, mock-outraged.

  “Loser says what?” Evan shoved the pretzel in his mouth and claimed the desk, making the class laugh.

  “Okay, everybody, let’s get started!” Chris closed the classroom door, and the laughter slowly began to subside. Raz slumped into the desk at the head of the row, sulking as he set down his backpack. Jordan took the last empty desk, at the head of the row closest to Chris’s desk, then he accepted the apple without complaint. The transaction confirmed to Chris that Evan Kostis was the leader, Raz was a question mark, and Jordan was the follower.

  “Class, as I said, my name is Mr. Brennan and I’ll be replacing Ms. Merriman. I have her syllabus, and we’ll try to pick up where she left off.” Chris clapped his hands together to get their attention, since they hadn’t settled down. “I’m new in town. I grew up in the Midwest, taught in Wyoming, and I think we’re going to have a fine rest of the semester.”

  “Can you ride horses?” Raz called out, and Chris took it as another attempt to make a connection.

  “Yes I can,” Chris answered, which was true. “Anything else you want to know? I’m happy to answer a few questions.”

  “Are you married?” one of the girls called out.

  “No, I’m not,” Chris answered to hooting and giggling.

  “Are you a dog person or cat person?” asked another girl, the one who worried about peanut allergies. Her name was Sarah Atkinson, Chris knew but didn’t let on.

  “I like all animals but I don’t have any pets right now. I’m not allowed. Last question?”

  “Boxers or briefs?” Raz shouted, then burst into laughter, joined by the rest of the class.

  “No comment.” Chris smiled, then motioned for them to settle down. “All right, let’s jump right in. I’m going to assume that you read the materials Ms. Merriman posted on her webpage and I reposted them on mine. That’s how I’m going to run this class, too. Government derives its power from the consent of the governed. We also have a social compact, you and I.”

  The students began pulling out their three-ring binders, spiral-bound notebooks, finding pens and pencils from their backpacks. They weren’t allowed to use laptops in class.

  “My webpage has the syllabus, the assignments, and the quiz and test schedule. Class participation is a third of your grade.” Chris walked to his desk, which contained the Teacher’s Edition of their textbook How Government Works, the black binder of his notes for class, and a class roster with students’ faces, none of whom he cared about except Evan, Jordan, and Raz. He consulted it before he asked the next question. “Mr. Samins, Andrew Samins? Let’s start with the readings. What was the first social compact in this country?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, I’m not sure. I was sick yesterday so I didn’t do the homework.”

  “Okay, you get a free pass, one day only.” Chris smiled, like the Cool Teacher. “Anybody else?” A bunch of girls raised their hands, and Chris glanced at his roster. “Sarah Atkinson? Sarah, why don’t you tell us?”

  “It was the Mayflower Compact.”

  “Correct, and why was the Mayflower Compact a social contract?”

  “Well, the people on the Mayflower decided to get together and they said that they would make an agreement on how they were going to govern themselves.”

  “Right.” Chris noticed Evan and Jordan hunched over their notebooks to take notes. Raz was doodling a picture of a pilgrim. “In 1620, the Mayflower made its way to the Boston area with a hundred and
two passengers. On November 11, 1620, forty-one of them—only the men—wrote and signed a document that created a system of self-governance, because they had to start a settlement, plant crops, and harvest them.”

  Chris could see that Evan and Jordan took more notes, and Raz kept doodling. He continued, “The Mayflower Compact was a first example of popular sovereignty. Does anybody know what popular sovereignty means?”

  Sarah’s hand shot up again, but Chris pointed to an Asian girl behind her. “Yes, hi, please tell me your name before you answer the question.”

  “Brittany Lee. Popular sovereignty means that the political authority is with the people, like the citizens, and they can do what they want to the government. They can start one or they can even overthrow one.”

  “That’s right, Brittany. The notion is that individuals have rights, and that the government has power only because it comes from the people.” Chris wanted to get to the exercise he had planned, with an ulterior motive. “Now, you were supposed to read the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. These two documents embody what is unique about American government, which is that the Constitution sets the structure of government and the Bill of Rights sets the limitations on government. In other words, the Bill of Rights protects the rights of the individual. Let’s do an exercise that will help us think about what it was like to be setting up a government.”

  Chris moved to the center of the room, and Raz turned the page, hiding his doodle. “Imagine you were one of the founding fathers, the actual people who wrote the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. Which document would you write, if you had the choice? Are you the authority, the person who wants to set up the government and establish rules that everyone can live by? Or are you the person who wants to set forth what rights belong to the individuals, so that they can never be taken by the authority?”

  Sarah’s hand shot up. “Like, do you mean are we Republicans or Democrats?”

  “What about the independents?” called a boy in the back. “My brother’s an independent!”

  Raz turned around. “Your brother’s an independent geek!”

  Chris shot Raz a warning look, wondering if the boy was too much of a loose cannon for him. “Everybody, stand up, right now.”